That’s what she said just before I shut the car door.
But I was much more surprised by what her husband said afterwards (he was, after all, the same man who had frolicked about with a woman in scarlet lingerie):
“And I’ll do the same, Claire. I will.”
People are so unpredictable when it comes to matters of the heart. So inexplicably irrational. Maybe memory does that to them. It’s funny how twenty years of recovered memories (Mark and Claire Evans did dig pretty deep during the conversation I overheard) can make people feel so differently about each other by the end of the day. I suppose that if a woman brings her man a sandwich for lunch, he might feel a sudden burst of affection for her. But if he discovers that she had in fact brought him a sandwich each day for twenty consecutive years and kept him company each time he wolfed it down, the sandwich acquires new meaning. It’s just possible he might fall in love with her.
Does love equal memory? Or does memory equal love?
I haven’t got a clue. At any rate, I’m tempted to be as unpredictable as Mark Evans this evening. Just this once, perhaps. I can permit myself the occasional aberration of rational judgment.
My car races back past the kebab shops and flashing neon signs on Mill Road.
There’s a chance that Fiona’s still at the Parkside station. She may be good at keeping secrets. Women in skintight leopard-print trousers might even be very good at it. After more than two decades in the force, I have not amassed any evidence to the contrary. I need dinner, anyway. Definitely something more substantial than the ham-and-bacon sandwich that Fiona brought me earlier.
I’m hungry for more.
The person in control always has the last laugh. This is what I’ve learned from my time in jail.
—Mark Henry Evans, draft of Revelations from Belmarsh: The Musings of an Imprisoned Author
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A beach on Bora-Bora, South Pacific
Many, many months after the murder
This pi?a colada sucks. And so does that fucking martini. I’ll take a triple shot of vodka anytime.
The man with the shaggy Labradoodle is definitely eyeing me. From behind the glossy-covered book he’s reading. I recognize him. He stepped off his private yacht four days ago. I wonder why he’s still hanging around this beach. I’m sure he isn’t a detective of some sort.
Or is he?
Fucking hell.
But detectives don’t own yachts. Nor do they own shaggy Labradoodles.
Or do they?
He must merely be admiring me.
I fucking hope so.
Like that hot dude in the pink-hibiscus shorts. From atop his lifeguard perch. Or that man sprawled out on the sand with a beer, belly flopping to one side. He has already thrown me several lusty glances whenever his female companion isn’t looking. Oh, God. That pudgy bloke on the inflatable swan is practically gawking at me. I wish he would go away. He reeks of sweat and stale coconut-scented sunscreen.
Life on this sunny beach is full of hazards. I shouldn’t have worn this itsy-bitsy white bikini. It attracts unwanted attention. Even in fucking Bora-Bora.
I thought I could get away from it all. From the pesky dregs of humanity. Instead I’m being leered at by a man on a giant inflatable swan.
I can’t decide. Should I be worried or flattered? I’ll settle for flattered (for the time being, and for my own sanity). I did, after all, fork out over ￡47,900 for a comprehensive round of “treatment.” Necessary fixes from dear Dr. Patel. I should technically be pleased that my money didn’t go to waste. I’m desirable to multiple males on this beach.
But I still look like a dead woman whom I hate.
And that’s the whole fucking problem.
This sorry situation is partly my plastic surgeon’s fault. I blame the idiot. For being so damned good at what he does.
For not being able to undo what he did.
I groan whenever I think about that day. The afternoon when I went back to Dr. Patel’s office in Belgravia bearing another photograph in my hand.
The poor man, naturally, was surprised to see me.
“My diary insists that I did all I could for you,” he said. “And so does this case file in front of me.”
“You did. I was very pleased with what you accomplished, Doctor.”
“So what brings you here today? A little touch of Botox, perhaps? Your forehead could do with some firming up.”
“I want more than Botox,” I said. “I want to look like this woman.”
I handed the photo to Dr. Patel. The man took one look at it, double-checked the profile of the skinny brunette on the top of his case file, and nearly fell off his chair.
“But…” he said, spluttering. “But…isn’t she you? Isn’t that how you used to look? Before I made…er…a few improvements to your face?”
“Precisely, Doctor,” I said, trying to hide a grin. “That’s indeed how I used to look. Before you gave me a shit-hot makeover. But I would like to have my old self back, please. It’s a bit of a mousy look, I know. But I was pretty damned comfortable with that old face of mine. Though I wasn’t so happy with the slight kink in my nose. Those protruding ears. So I’ll keep the ears and nose you’ve given me. But the chin and cheeks can go back to what they used to be.”
The phrase “You must be mad” hovered on Patel’s lips. But he bit his words back. Knowing that he would be insane to insult a cherished client. Especially one as well-paying as I am. A sucker who keeps coming back for more.
“I’ve never had a client tell me that she wants her old looks back,” he said, incredulity etched all over his face.
“There’s always a first time for everything, Doctor. Women are so awfully fickle, aren’t they? Especially when it comes to their appearance. But I’ll pay. I’ll pay whatever it takes to revive my old self. Reverse engineering’s a bit of a pain, I know. This is why I promise to pay well.”
Patel’s face temporarily lit up at the mention of money. Plastic surgeons do what they do for dough. They say they took the Hippocratic oath. But they are equally bound to the Hypocritic oath.
He sighed, defeat brimming in his eyes.
“Sorry,” he said. “But there’s no way I can give you your old looks back. Plastic surgery isn’t as plastic as it sounds.”
I frowned. I glowered. I raved and pleaded like a lunatic. But Patel remained adamant that any further work on my face would turn me into Frankenstein’s monster, no matter how much I paid. So I slouched out minutes later, still looking the same. It’s a shame that the only surgeons willing to perform the fixes I wanted were all third-rate sorts. Reckon I’m smart enough not to risk it.
Net result: I still look like a woman I hate.
Fucking hell.